Snapshots
by theamck
Summary: Sometimes a memory is as good as a photograph.


Snapshots

1. Barbara Havers had never had an album of family photos – no one she knew had a camera. But in her mind, she held vivid memories that were as good, perhaps better than a physical collection. All she had to do was close her eyes and go to that storehouse of snapshots. She was grateful for the few actual pictures that others had taken of her brother Terry, but there were so many more in her mind. Memories of when they were both little, of how she took care of him – until she couldn't. There were mental images she tried to push away – when he was sick, dying. When her mother began to fade away. She sighed, snuggling into her bed, choosing to remember instead the many moments she cherished of Thomas Lynley, her partner, her boss, her friend. And, secretly, the man she loved.

She'd often seen him around the Met, the man she'd thought of as "an arrogant, aristocratic ponce", though she barely knew him. What was an earl doing working as a policeman? But when she'd been sent to fetch him at a fancy wedding, he had taken her breath away. A handsome man, yes, but despite his fancy suit, she saw a touch of sadness, and that was the moment she thought of as the first in her album of memories. That first case, when she tried hard to hate him, to persist in seeing him as a pretender, not someone to take seriously, he had begun to chip away at her prejudices. She realized that he was suffering, deeply in love with the bride who had just married his best friend. He was kind, generous, thoughtful, in an almost off-hand way. Not just to her, but to the

unhappy girl who had murdered her own father. And she knew that he had listened to her, seeming to see beyond her sullen, even rude defiance. When they drove off together, she dared to light a cigarette in his fancy car, though she recalled that she blew the smoke out of an open window. She held fast to her determination that he would never know she had fallen in love with him.

2. She'd been surprised and pleased when he had asked for her to be assigned to his next case, and the one after that, but she – and, it seemed, everyone at the Met – soon came to see this as a permanent partnership. She felt she'd come into her own, able to use her intelligence and persistence instead of hiding them as she'd felt necessary with the inspectors she'd worked with before. He wasn't threatened by her assets, and they both seemed to enjoy the times they worked together. She'd never had a relationship like this. They argued - fiercely sometimes, but always made up, and he even managed to overcome his innate reticence to tell her how much he liked and respected her. There were times when she once again thought of him as a "ponce", but she also was taken by surprise by how well he knew her. When he came to the hospital as her father was dying, he said he knew she'd be there, as it was the only place she turned off her mobile. He was sympathetic when her father died, without probing, and he endured her misery and vacillation about how to care for her mother. And he seemed to enjoy seeing her in her own place, tiny as it was compared to the ones he was used to. They were friends, she realized, and as much as she valued this friendship, she felt certain they could never be more than friends, so she put her own feelings aside and pushed him into a relationship with his old friend Helen Clyde. Lady Helen. She tried to like Helen, sure that she and Lynley were right for one another. Same class, same backgrounds, same values.

She was relieved not to have a mental image of their wedding, since they'd eloped. She suspected, once they were married, that Helen resented the role she had in Lynley's life, and there were times when she felt that Helen treated him badly, and this bothered her, but she kept her own counsel, and the two women were able to maintain an equilibrium. But those snapshots remained in her mind.

After Helen lost their baby, the marriage foundered. During those months when Lynley and Helen were separated, Barbara and her boss spent more time together, often going to a pub after work, even extending the evening into dinner. They found it easy to work in his spacious house, and she there were a few memorable nights when she slept in the guest room after they'd worked late. She made him laugh, teasing him, even insulting his wealth and status. He tried going out with other women, but several times, he wound up at her flat instead. Once or twice, he talked about his feelings, a rare thing for him, and she came to love him even more. But she kept those feelings to herself, continuing to protect him from the rages she was surprised to see. When she was shot, he paid for specialists and private hospital rooms, though she was not supposed to know. She held close to the memories of his visits, his tenderness, his affection. But she also worried about Helen's refusal to see him, suffering along with him over the possibility of his losing his marriage. It was only once in a while, if she'd had too much to drink, that she allowed herself to think that some day he might want her.


End file.
